Friday 23rd May
Food, glorious food
Jakarta has an estimated seven million of them. They’re tough little buggers, impossible to get rid of, and breed faster than rabbits on Viagra. No, we’re not talking about that loveable little critter, your friendly neighbourhood cockroach – nor are we talking about your cute and cuddly domestic rat. Public Enemy Number One is the motorbike.
In my neck of the woods it’s not the ones tearing along the road that are the bane of my life, it’s the ones that are parked. As I set out for a Friday razzle down the Blok I see that Jalan Fatmawati is completely clogged up, and decide to risk going eastwards down my narrow little street. Navigating the food stalls, parked cars, gangs of kids and other sundry livestock is all part of the fun – and edging my way through a tabled and tented stretch of the road (a wedding is imminent) I reach the turning by the mosque unscathed.
But the junction is snarled by a dyslexic bajaj driver and a cohort of bikers who block my side completely – starring angrily at me for having the temerity to be going the other way, and preventing them from hogging the whole road. Squeezing my little car into the turning I hear a dull clunk followed by a painful clatter, having knocked over an ojek that was parked sticking out into the street. The angry owner gesticulates in a paroxysm of self-righteous fury, but the locals laugh heartily and tell him to shut up. They’re fed up with these motoring mavericks, and are delighted that one of them has at last got his comeuppance.
As I tack into the oncoming storm of traffic I think to myself I ought to stick a decal on the front wing of my car for each bike I hit, a bit like those World War Two bomber crews who displayed one for each mission they flew.
Taking a circuitous route through back streets and byways I miss the macets and get to the Blok in no time at all.
As I turn into Jalan Falatehan I glance at the old D’s Place building and see that it’s already been gutted ready for development. There’s something sad, even tragic, about the scoured walls, the blankly starring empty window spaces, and the dismal shadow of a doorway. The ravaged shell of the building is a memento mori, a mute warning that the rest of the street will one day fall victim to commercial development.
Brushing aside this depressing thought I park outside D’s new home and breeze into the bar. As last week, the place is bustling with early evening Blokkers, and trade is thriving. Ah, they’ve already knocked through the wall into the middle bar! The wall has sprouted a new archway, the base of which is seating that’s already proving popular with the customers. A rather nice touch is that the mock-brick wallpaper is a different brick size, colour and texture from the middle arch. This adds to the kitschiness that is the glorious hallmark of new D’s.
Looking down through the Dungeon I see the promised small bar set up and ready for action. The lighting is a bit brighter, though not so much as to spoil the tenebrous gloom of the place. But my spirit slumps when I notice a TV strung up on the wall above the bar. What, I ask myself, is the point of a TV screen in a dark dancing area, where the guys will be going to ogle the performers? These redundant appendages, these ubiquitous digital distractions, are all too literally an eyesore.
Finishing my first beer of the evening I decide to pop across the road and get some food in Top Gun.
It’s eight thirty, early for action in Top Gun, so I settle down to a beer and order a sop buntut. The pool table is fairly quiet, so I sign up for a game. A figure strides towards me out of the gloom – it’s my old friend Frank, and we agree to play our traditional variation of the game. This involves taking the craziest, most indirect shot on the table, and potting the white as often as possible.
The game goes well – so well, that we’re not sure who’s won. While we’re scratching our heads and mulling over the outcome the arrival of food decides the issue, and Frank plays on while I tuck into my meal.
Now I’ve praised the quality of Top Gun’s sop buntut many a time, but tonight’s serving is in a class of its own. The rice is perfection, the green chopped chili sauce is just the right strength – and there are five big juicy pieces of oxtail, the succulent meat so tender it falls off as you lift the bone. The potatoes and carrots are precisely the right texture, and the seasoning of the delicious soup is spot on.
As my plate is cleared, who do I see at the pool table but one of the old Blok M regulars who hasn’t been around for quite some time. He’s just flown in from Chicago, and thanks me profusely for keeping him informed of what’s been happening down the Blok. Fixing me with a mock-austere frown he raises an eyebrow and asks if he’s one of the Pool Nazis, but I reassure him that he most definitely is not.
The turnout of Sweet Young Things is disappointing tonight – half the Indramayu girls are throwbacks to my early Blokking days. They may be faring well and still turning the occasional head, but spring chickens they most certainly ain’t. Dumb and Dumber makes a rather low-key entry, pouts petulantly (as though the lack of guys is a personal insult to her bounteous pleasures), and goes out in a huff.
It’s a good evening to chat and gossip, as quite a few of my old friends are in the Gun tonight. But nemesis, in the form of the night’s band, strikes us for daring to enjoy the social pleasures of a good chinwag. By ten thirty I’ve had quite enough of the loud music, and bid farewell.
Now one of the good things about One Tree Bar is that it’s a civilised corner of the Blok where you can sit, drink and chat in a convivial atmosphere. Or could. I order a glass of red wine and settle down to enjoy it, reflecting rather mournfully that 58,000 rupes is pushing the Reveller’s budget more than somewhat.
Then the sound goes up. Loud music. Too loud. Unpleasant and uncalled for, it ruins the ambience. Now I’ve stopped complaining about loud music in the bars, as my protests always fall on deaf ears. I vote with my feet, and the bar loses any further custom from me that night.
I wonder if this insensitivity to noise may be something to do with the new bar staff – I don’t recognise them from my recent visits. So I finish my wine and leave without ceremony, making a mental note to tell Bart that his team needs a gentle reminder to keep the sound at a reasonable background level.
Walking up the street to D’s I look forward with relish to buying a shawarma takeaway. I scratch my head as I read the outside menu board, and notice that the title of the outlet is “Kebab”. Oh dear, oh dear. A kebab, of course, is spiced bits of meat cooked on a skewer or a spit – the roasted stack of meat slices from which slivers are cut is, was, and always will be, a shawarma.
But semantics apart, it’s a goody and a perfect late-night snack. The price is just a tad under forty one thousand rupes when tax and service are added to the menu’s 35k, but the quality and quantity compensate for the outlay. Clutching my purchase I head for my car, and I’m soon weaving my way through the leftovers of the night traffic.
Home. Switch on the computer, unwrap the shawarma, and tuck into the tasty collation. It’s not been an outstanding night out, but a fairly enjoyable one. D’s has got it right, Top Gun is coasting along nicely, but One Tree has got to relate its background music to the character of the place and the expectations of its customers.
